


Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

by Claire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angels and Demons, Biblical References, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8766502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: In which Chris is an angel and Peter is one of the Fallen





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Petopher Appreciation Week Day 2: AU
> 
> Title related to Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

The almost silent beat of wings on the wind makes Peter look up, a smirk crossing his lips as he sees Chris standing there. "I didn't think you'd come."

The look Chris gives him tells Peter that Chris didn't think that either. Leaning back against the bench he's sitting on, Peter stretches an arm out. It tightens his shirt over his chest and the subtle shift of Chris' stance tells him the angel noticed it, too. But that's okay. After all, Peter's not above using every weapon at his disposal.

"Why did you call me here, Peter?" Chris asks. There's annoyance in his tone and an undercurrent of something else Peter doesn't want to give a name to.

"It's been an age since I've seen you, Christopher. Can't I just want to chat, catch up?" If he's being honest with himself, Peter really hadn't thought much beyond calling Chris, beyond using that connection they still have. He didn't think Chris would answer him, never mind actually appear.

"Considering the last time I saw you, you decided that falling was better than staying with me, I'd hope you'd have a better reason than just 'catching up'."

Peter closes his eyes briefly. He doesn't often think about that time. On the one side, there had been Chris, bright and beautiful and terrifying in his glory. And on the other, there had been that voice inside him. The one that said what if and why. The one that beckoned him with the temptation of a darkness an angel shouldn't find so appealing.

He never told Chris why he decided to follow in the Lightbringer's footsteps, why the darkness of Dis offered so much more than the shining light of Araboth. Never told Chris that he followed Talia to earth once, wondering why his sister felt so much kinship with the squalling infants their father had created. He'd watched as she'd walked among them, reaching out to temper just a moment of their squalid existence with peace.

And he'd watched as a group of them had realised what she was. Watched as they'd trapped her with sigils and incantations. He'd heard the words they spat at her as they told her how her body would bring them so much worth. Watched as she'd stayed silent as they started to remove her feathers, pulling them out one by one, until her wings were nothing more than flayed skin and bone. And he'd had to watch it all from the shadows, unable to intervene due to Talia using the last of her power to keep him hidden.

_They may not have you, as well, little brother._

Only when she'd been gone, her light snuffed out by mortals who laughed over what they did, did the magic holding Peter fail. And he'd felt it then. The anger, encompassing and righteous as it swept through him. He'd ripped through the humans like they were nothing, feeling the heat of their blood on his fingers, seeing it splatter and stain the whiteness of his wings. And he'd known then he could never follow their father's teachings.

These humans are wondrous children, their father had said.

They were nothing but monsters, all too eager to defile anything of value that walked among them, Peter had seen.

He hadn't been able to view them as anything else after that. Every time one of the host mentioned how amazing humans were, every time they parroted their father's sheltered view of his newest children, all Peter could see was the way the ground under Talia had run slick with red, the way her light, that should have shone for millennia more, was extinguished in a single act of greed and avarice.

He could remember how it had been when the Morningstar fell, when one of the highest of their brothers decided that no longer would he blindly accept their father's word on how these humans were the pinnacle of all the host could be. How they grew in the mud but still managed to reach upwards.

He remembers how the word spread through them, whispered comments passed from angel to angel about the rebellion of one of the arches, the highest among them. And with the words came agreement. Those who stood with Lucifer, who wanted to know who these humans were that their own father rated them higher than the host. Scores of angels, who stood before Him, and rejected the blind faith in humanity that their father insisted they have.

He remembers how Talia had stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder as she murmured to him, comments about how Lucifer was wrong, about how humanity were the brightest because they weren't angels. How their faith was stronger because they didn't know and yet they still believed.

It had been Talia that had assuaged his own doubts, that had made him silence that part inside him that was whispering to him that Lucifer had a point, that maybe he should be following his brother as he led so many of their family out of the doors of the only place they had ever known as home.

And he'd thought for the longest time that it had been the right choice. That Heaven brought with it peace and love and Chris.

If he closes his eyes, Peter can still feel the touch of Chris' fingers on him, can still feel the soft brush of Chris' wings against his skin. And then he'd followed Talia to earth, watched as she was slain by the evil all humans have in them.

Peter had still been dripping red when he'd returned, droplets of crimson falling from his fingers, from his wings, as he walked through the gates. Each drop hissing hot behind him, each one of them a testament to what he had done.

Chris had been there when the host had gathered to determine if Peter should be banished. The tips of his wings had been quivering, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to turn away from Peter, or to reach out to him.

And Peter had known before Raguel had even spoken what the decision was to be. Because he'd known he wouldn't be allowed to stay in Heaven, not with the blood of his father's most precious children still staining him. Even if they had struck first, even if Talia was no longer with them due to humanity, Peter would still be punished for the justice he had meted out.

So, he'd known, and he'd be damned by his own words before he'd have ever let them do it for him.

The words had left Peter's lips before Raguel had had time to speak. Chris' eyes had widened, and Peter had known at that point that Chris would never consider coming with him. That Chris believed in their father too much, believed in the inherent goodness of humanity that Peter knew was nothing more than a facade for their disgusting underbelly.

He'd walked to the gates, the seraph surrounding him, each step a ringing knell to who he was and a welcoming embrace to who he was about to become. Chris had been next to him with each step, silent and refusing to look at Peter, but still there.

Before he'd stepped through the gates, he'd pulled a single feather from his wings. He'd buried his hand in deep to pull out one of the only flight feathers that wasn't stained red in some way. He'd held it out to Chris, fearing for the longest time that Chris would refuse him, would just turn away. And then Chris' hand had slowly reached out, his fingers carefully holding the feather as his thumb brushed over Peter's wrist.

It had been the last time they had touched before Peter left Heaven, the gates closing behind him.

And now here they are. Sitting on a bench in one of a thousand parks in one of a thousand cities. There are people all around them, and Peter wonders if Chris sees what he sees when he looks at them. Wonders if Chris looks deep enough to see past the facade. That the father playing baseball with his two laughing sons sneaks into his daughter's room at night. That the jogger passing them beats his wife for the slightest perceived transgression.

"Do you still think them worthy, Chris?" Peter asks. Because he has to know. Has to know if Chris sees them for what they are, or if he still follows their father's word.

There's silence from Chris, the stillness of the air broken only by the sounds around them, and Peter thinks he isn't going to answer. But then Chris' entire body relaxes slightly, and even though Peter knows that angels don't need to sigh, he can feel it coming from Chris anyway.

"I've come to understand that humans are," he pauses slightly, "complicated." There's another pause. "And that maybe your decision to leave wasn't as black and white as Father made out."

Peter turns to look at him. Chris is staring straight ahead, looking out over the lake in front of them. "Chris?"

Chris doesn't answer, and Peter knows something happened. Because it's Chris and there has to have been something to put that look on his face. Peter doesn't push, he knows that's a sure fire way to make sure Chris never says anything.

But he doesn't need to push, because Chris is turning to look at him. He reaches into his pocket, and Peter can feel his breath thickening in his chest as he sees the father Chris pulls out, the one that's never grown back on his own wings.

"I miss you, Peter."

"I can't come back." Not only wouldn't he be allowed, none of the Fallen can set foot in the Silver City, but he doesn't want to. He couldn't go back to pretending humanity are anything other than the monsters they are. Couldn't go back to praising their souls, even knowing that they're blacker than his own.

"I'm not suggesting you come back, Peter."

"Then what--" Peter's words trail off as he sees the look in Chris' eyes. And he can hardly hold the hope inside him. Because this is what he thought about for so long after he Fell, what he still thinks about. Him and Chris, together. Wings entwined, as they should be.

"I hunt monsters," Peter says. Because that's the task the Morningstar gave him. A group of the Fallen, assigned to hunt down the worst of humanity. To take down those who kill and maim and stain their souls with blood. And Peter takes them, screaming, into Hell, to face their ultimate judgment.

"And the world has a lot of monsters," Chris comments.

Peter just nods. He knows that, he's seen all too many of them.

"I suppose another pair of wings to help would never be refused."

"Never," Peter answers. Even if they would have been, Peter would burn the earth to have Chris back with him. And Chris would be terrifying and perfect as a hunter. Peter can almost see it now, Chris in his righteous anger, taking those who pervert their Father's plan for his children.

Reaching out, Peter places his hand, palm upwards, on Chris' knee. And it takes a minute, a year, millennia, but Chris places his own on top, his fingers curling over Peter's. It's a vow, a promise, that they'll be together for the rest of eternity.

And Peter feels that part within him, that part that hasn't felt complete since he left the Silver City, breathe again.


End file.
